


the ones we used to worship (the ones who want your heart still)

by nowrunalong



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Bodysharing, Character Study, Enemies to reluctant allies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowrunalong/pseuds/nowrunalong
Summary: Illyria examines the numbers on the wall.
Relationships: Winifred "Fred" Burkle & Illyria
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17
Collections: Monster Cuties Flash 2020





	the ones we used to worship (the ones who want your heart still)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



Illyria examines the numbers on the wall. Their meaning is irrelevant to a God-King of the Primordium, but she recognizes intelligence in the physical nature of these scrawled figures. The pressure of the writing instrument indicates an avid commitment; the vastness of the formulae reveals a tireless mind. The one who had divined these numbers was not as much a worthless insect as the rest of humankind.

As she stands at the center of this structure—this room that had once belonged to Fred Burkle, as Illyria’s form had once belonged to her—air moved by an unseen force displaces the hair around her shoulders. The chill does not penetrate her apparel, but it is irksome that such a trifling movement even draws her attention.

As ruler of the Primordium, Illyria had scarcely felt the bones of her victims shatter under her colossal weight. The entire edifice at which Wesley is employed would not withstand the power of Illyria as she was then. A carapace of impenetrable armour had made her near-immortal. The concept of ending had not crossed the God-King’s mind.

The rule of Illyria was to be for all of time. She was feared and worshipped by every being. And now—

Illyria whips around faster than a human body is capable of without the aid of primordial magicks, into the hallway outside of Fred Burkle’s room. Her sword cuts through the air, meeting no resistance until it makes contact with the wall, tearing its decorative paper shell.

Her company is not a physical presence.

“You,” Illyria says.

Through the arch of the doorway that separates them, Fred Burkle looks back at her from the bathroom mirror. She speaks to Illyria in a voice that is neither afraid nor worshipful. “It’s silly, but when I was fighting you, I was worried about how much of a mess I looked. At least you don’t look a mess now. I mean, the eyes are kind of creepy, but in a neat way.”

Illyria tilts her head. “You were eliminated,” she says.

“Well, yeah. You don’t need to remind me.”

“You have no place here now,” Illyria says, crossing the threshold and reaching for Fred Burkle’s neck as if to snap it. Her fingers meet only glass; the pane shatters at the impact. She cannot kill an illusion.

Fred looks down as Illyria retracts her hand. Her image had been fractured but it is still whole; not a shard had fallen to the tiled floor. “That wasn’t very friendly. But I guess I’d be a fool if I thought we could just talk like civilized people. You tried to kill me.” 

“Killing you was an insignificant consequence of my return.”

“Maybe not that insignificant. You’re still talking to me.”

“Wesley pines for you,” Illyria says, because she’s learned that in the absence of swords and sharp teeth, humans use words to wound one another. “In his eyes, you are dead. Only I remain.”

“You still haven’t told Wesley that you’re seeing me,” Fred says. “I think you feel threatened by me. Probably ‘cause you know you can’t hurt me. I’m in your head.” The reflection stares back at Illyria with impious defiance. “You can’t kill an illusion.”

Illyria braces her fingers at the edge of the mirror forcefully enough to dent the wall. “ _I am Illyria._ I ruled the gods and all of their pitiful creations. You will fall, as they did. You will never know true strength and power as I have known it. This puny human body may sustain your memory, but it is I who is in control.”

“You think ‘cause you used to be some demon the size of a library that you know true strength. You ripped my _life_ apart. You tore me out of my own body. I don’t know if you even feel pain, but I’ll tell you something. When your insides are being melted by an ancient parasitic god—”

“Parasitic?” Illyria hisses, affronted.

“—it hurts so much you’d almost rather leave.”

“Then leave.”

“You don’t understand,” Fred says. “I’m still here because I’m as strong as you are. Maybe even stronger. I stood up to you. How many people have done that and lived to tell the story?”

It had taken an army to imprison Illyria in the Deeper Well.

“You exist only in my head,” Illyria tells the shattered mirror. “Once I have forgotten you, as I forget all insignificant things, you will cease to speak.”

No longer interested in this conversation, Illyria punctuates her statement swiftly with a fist. Her gloved hand connects with the center of the mirror, scattering the shards of glass across the bathroom floor.

When she looks past the blue-tinged hair that frames her peripheral vision to the mirror fragments at her feet, however, it is a face with earth-brown eyes that meets her piercing gaze. Fred Burkle’s likeness is smiling in each shard—dozens of pieces, not a single one reflecting primordial blue.

“I know how you feel,” Fred Burkle says. “I live in your head. I know that you’ve lost everything that was important to you—your old body, your armies, even your fearsome reputation. We’re alike, you and I. Two folks who’ve had everything taken from them.”

The wind Illyria had noticed earlier is coming in through an open window; the curtains in the bathroom ripple like the surface of a lake. She feels it on the exposed skin of her face. In the mirror shards, Fred Burkle seems to shiver.

“You are suggesting an alliance?" Illyria asks.

“Yes.”

Illyria steps over the shattered mirror into the hallway. “We will talk,” she agrees.

“I’ll see you later then,” Fred’s voice says, at once behind Illyria and inside her mind. “I think we’ll make a great team.”

If fighting an illusion gives it form, perhaps collaboration will dissipate it. 

Illyria will not be defeated by a memory.


End file.
